


Healing and Chamomile

by Shes-claws-deep (CyrilOdahviing)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nightmares, alternate take on fluff, recovering from PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:51:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12071223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CyrilOdahviing/pseuds/Shes-claws-deep
Summary: Hanzo wakes from a nightmare and reader comforts him. An alternate take on the usual comfort fluff.





	Healing and Chamomile

_“You must restore the honour of your family.”_

_“That menace is a disgrace; a black mark on our name.”_

_“He must die, Hanzo. It will be by your hands or by ours.”_

“Brother, what are you doing?!” 

He couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, as his blade swept through the air. As it sank into flesh and bone and rent through both like a warm knife through butter. No, he screamed in his head and watched helplessly as his brother choked on his blood. Guts and viscera coated his hands and the floor. Gurgling, dying groans filled his ears. he wanted to close his eyes, cover his face, but he couldn’t even twitch his muscles. A hand landed on his ankle then, and he glanced down to see Genji’s bisected body crawling towards him.

“Why, brother?” the corpse demanded, blood soaked teeth bared as it gripped the bottom of his hakama to crawl up his legs. “What have you done!”

_No,_ he wanted to sob. _I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t want to kill you. But I…I…_

“The time for excuses is over. Now, it is time for vengeance.”

A blinding glow emanated from the mauled body, and Hanzo could barely flinch before a glowing green blade was at his throat, singing for his death. Silver helmet, slitted green visor, and a full cybernetic body - it was Genji. The blade pressed deeper. Hanzo could feel it draw blood. 

“Now…you die.”

As the blade sank into the unprotected flesh of his throat, Hanzo’s eyes snapped open. Paralysed with fear, the archer’s eyes flickered around the room. Genji! He was here, out to kill him! He had to-

“Anata?” your soft, sleepy voice drew his attention.

His tongue was thick in his mouth. He couldn’t say anything; didn’t have anything to say. Control returned to his limbs then and Hanzo rocketed out of bed to stalk down the hallway and out the door to the makeshift archery range. He ignored your worried face, the resulting footsteps as you followed him out. No, he only had eyes for the hundred-fifty pound bow and the quiver beside it. Not his beloved Storm Bow, but a training one with greater poundage. Perfect for tiring him out.

Firing arrows were second nature to him now, but Hanzo counted under his breath to time his movements. One; remove arrow from quiver. Two; notch arrow. Three; draw. Four; breathe in, hold. Five; fire. Arrow after arrow was fired, until he exhausted his quiver. 

Fire still ran in his veins, still made his eyes wild, still made his limbs tremble. The target was evidence enough of his manic shooting. Despite his best efforts, his arrows were scattered all over the dummy, with only one hitting it in the chin. He swore, a hand rubbing his face in defeat. The muscles of his shoulders twitched, and his hands shook as he placed the bow back on the rack. He didn’t bother to retrieve the arrows; he wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t drop them. 

Swallowing a gulp, he turned to head back into the house when he saw you sitting on the wide porch. A teapot and two cups sat before you, a wisp of steam trailing from the spout of the pot - it was still hot. Next to you was a pile of wood, and he had to squint before he realised it was a stack of shinai - bamboo swords. 

_“No, Genji, shoulders back! Your left hand is too high. Remember, posture is key.”_

_“Mou, big brother, I know! It’s just…taking a while.”_

_“If you just concentrate you’ll get it in no time. Now stop slacking!”_

Hanzo breathed in deeply to dispel the memory with a twitch of his lip. It wasn’t…that wasn’t a bad memory. He was getting better.

An assortment of other things surrounded you as well - a shinai maintenance kit, a warm orange lamp, a small bin, and an incense diffuser.

“Kimi?” he asked quietly, the term of endearment making you smile as he padded over to you. The shaking in his limbs lessened as his eyes roved over you. You were safe, calm; not in danger from cybernetic ninjas or bloodthirsty clan elders. The serenity you emanated stilled the frenzy in his veins, and he could finally try to level his breathing. He stepped up to the porch, dodged the items you had laid out to sit beside you.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, but made no move to touch him. “Tea?” it was a question asked quietly with little inflection beyond affection in your voice. He nodded, his eyes were glued to your hands as they poured tea - chamomile by the smell of it - into the cups. He expected to jump, to be jittery as you pushed one towards him, but instead he felt a bone deep exhaustion seep into his tight muscles. Unconsciously, his fingers curled around the cup. 

The cup’s warmth warmed his cold, shaking fingers, and his eyes closed as the heat blossomed throughout his weakened body. He drank the tea slowly; it was warm enough to burn down his throat pleasantly, yet not hot enough to scald him. How long ago had you made this pot? How long had you been watching him fire arrow after arrow in an attempt to still his frenzied thoughts?

“Half an hour,” came your voice, accompanied by the sound of fabric scratching against fabric as you undid the bindings on the swords. He froze, and you clarified, “Half an hour from when you got out of bed to when you stopped firing.” Your eyes were proud as you looked up at him, “It’s a vast improvement from before. You’re handling things better now. Does the tea help?”

Hanzo looked down at the half-filled cup in his hands and marvelled at how much better he felt now. He could feel his muscles quivering in exhaustion rather than adrenaline. He could feel his frantic mind relaxing. He could feel control returning to him. And he said as much which made you smile.

“Good,” was all you said. You pushed another maintenance kit towards him, and handed half the stack of shinais over. “Help me check these for splinters. I haven’t used these for a long time.”

Hanzo half-expected to flinch as he touched the bamboo swords, but no memories assaulted him this time, much to his relief. His hands trembled slightly as he used the tweezers to undo the various knots, but the incense burned his nose and centered him, steadying his hands. Maintaining the swords was mindless work from decades of experience, and Hanzo found himself meditating as he untied and retied knots, sanded down bamboo slats, and set aside broken or splintered pieces that couldn’t be used anymore.

When he was done, he looked over to find you drinking your tea, staring off into the still dark sky. You noticed it and turned your head slowly, a small smile spread across your lips.

“Better?”

“Much. Thank you, kimi,” he reached over to grab your hand, reveling at the soft strength he could feel. He’s not much for affection, physical or otherwise, even in his touch-starved state. But this, this quiet acceptance and understanding and your solid presence, was enough. 

Your thumb brushed the back of his fingers, and Hanzo let out a tremulous sigh as the last of his panic drained out of his body. He was safe, you were safe. It was just his mind playing on his guilt and his regret. With his mind clear, Hanzo remembered that Genji held him no ill will, that the elders were dead, and his only remaining enemies were nowhere near his home.

“Good. Good…” you set the teacup down. “Want to go back to bed?”

Hanzo thought about it, then shook his head. He didn’t fear the nightmares or the memories, not anymore, but his body was still alert, still awake despite the weakness in his muscles. No, he didn’t think he could go back to sleep. He said so, and you accepted it with an understanding hum.

Instead of ushering him back to the bedroom, you made him help you clean up. The clattering of the bamboo swords in their case caused no reaction, and a well of pride and peace swelled in his chest. He was healing. Ever so slowly, he was healing. As he looked at you, interlocked your fingers, he smiled. Yes, with you, he could finally heal from the deep scars of his past.


End file.
